Fresh-Kill Pie
by Anne Onymus
Summary: A story based on a typo in Crookedstar's Promise, an old song, and an online recipe. So, I don't own ANY of this.


_A/N: I lifted the whole first sentence of this story from Crookedstar's Promise - including the words "fresh-kill **pie**" instead of "fresh-kill **pile**". And I just parodied the scene from there.  
_

_Disclaimer: Didn't I already sa- well, anyway, I don't own Warriors, the song "Old Joe Clark", or the chicken pie recipe I found online._

_**Fresh-Kill Pie**_

Crookedjaw ducked out of the den, looking around the clearing, relieved when he saw Oakheart picking sleepily through the remains of the fresh-kill pie.

Wait . . . fresh-kill _pie_?

"Hey, Oakheart!" he yelled, running to his littermate. "Is that fresh-kill pie?"

"Yep," mewed Oakheart.

"Cool, I love fresh-kill pie!" Voleclaw exclaimed, bounding over to it eagerly. He couldn't wait for it. Fresh-kill pie is much better than the plain pile you usually get.

Shellheart was beneath the willow, organizing the day's patrols. "Voleclaw!" he called.

Voleclaw walked to the rest of the patrol, still staring wistfully at the fresh-kill pie. Crookedjaw had been planning to ask if he could hunt that morning, but he decided not to. Who would willingly go hunting when there was fresh-kill pie to eat?

So he called across the clearing, "Can I cook this morning?" His breath billowed in the air; the Clan would have to get a microwave sometime soon, the way things were freezing up.

Shellheart nodded. "Mudfur and Petaldust can, too." He waved the two warriors towards Crookedjaw with a wave of his tail.

"Can Oakheart do it, too?" Crookedjaw asked.

Oakheart looked up. "Do what?"

"Cook more fresh-kill pie!"

"Great!" Oakheart picked up a piece of pie and headed for the nursery. "I'll just deliver this. The kits love pie even more than Voleclaw does."

Willowbreeze ducked out of the elders' den and padded down the slope. Her paws suddenly slid on the frost and she skidded clumsily to the bottom. "The kits will be happy." She joined Crookedjaw. "They've got an ice slide to play on."

"And fresh-kill pie!" Frogkit was already tearing across the clearing while chewing his last bit of pie. He bounded up the slope, then half-slid, half-ran down it, and ran to the fresh-kill pie.

"You've already had your piece," Crookedjaw meowed. He purred at Willowbreeze. "Oakheart, Petaldust, Mudfur, and I are cooking," he told her. "Do you want to come?"

She shook her head. "I promised Birdsong I'd help her find extra blankets at Warrior-Mart. She nearly froze last night."

"See you later." Crookedjaw brushed muzzles with Willowbreeze and hurried after Petaldust and Oakheart as they made for the kitchen. They were glad of the warmer air in there.

"I hope this cold is just a snap," Petaldust sighed. "It's not even Halloween yet."

Crookedjaw shuffled through a stack of recipes in a cabinet that jutted out over the sink. The last time he'd seen it, the fresh-kill pie recipe had been near the bottom. He couldn't find it, though he double-checked twice.

"I can't find the recipe!" he exclaimed.

"Here it is - at the top." Oakheart gave the recipe to Crookedjaw, who sighed. The recipe said:

_**Ingredients:**_

_4 cups chopped cooked fresh-kill_

_1 can cream-of-fresh-kill soup, undiluted_

_1 1/2 cups fresh-kill broth_

_2 tbsp corn starch_

_1 1/2 cups self-rising flour_

_1 cup buttermilk_

_1/2 cup butter, melted_

"What's a tbsp?" asked Crookedjaw, pronouncing it _ta-bisp._

Petaldust rolled her eyes. "It's short for _tablespoon_."

"Oh." Crookedjaw looked again at the recipe.

**_Preparation_**

_1: Place chopped fresh-kill in 12- x 8-inch baking dish. Whisk together soup, broth, and corn starch; pour mixture evenly over fresh-kill._

He wanted to ask what number "12- x 8-" actually was, but didn't want to look more ignorant than he already did. He was really an expert at anything besides cooking, he thought.

"Well, first we need the fresh-kill," he meowed.

Mudfur leaned halfway into the fridge. "Let's put in carp for Leopardkit. It's her favorite."

Petaldust plunged both her front paws into the fridge.

. Crookedjaw turned in time to see her lift a giant pike, bigger than herself, from the top shelf. He went over to help but as he grasped the fish, Petaldust lost her balance. With a yelp of surprise she fell and was buried under the fish.

As the biggest cat there, Crookedjaw heaved the pike off her and tried to set it on the counter, but it flopped off.

"This is too big," mewed Oakheart. "Let's put it back."

Oakheart and Crookedjaw combined efforts to stuff it back on the top shelf. Petaldust got off the floor and shook out her pelt, which was dripping fish juice. "How does that fit in the fridge anyway?" she asked.

Oakheart's whiskers twitched. "I didn't know you wanted a swim in fish juice," he teased.

Petaldust paced the floor, trying to get warm. "I didn't realize it was so big!"

Meanwhile Mudfur had fished a couple of carp from the fridge, and Crookedjaw had got a baking dish. (He still wasn't sure what "12- x 8" was or whether it was important, but no one was making comments about the pan, so it must be okay.) Petaldust, as soon as she was dry, whisked together the soup, broth and corn starch and poured it over the carp. The next step:

_2: Whisk together flour, buttermilk, and butter; spoon batter evenly over fresh-kill mixture._

"It's supposed to be a fresh-kill _mixture_," Crookedjaw meowed. Finally, he was saying something intelligent about cooking. "So should we get another fish?"

"No," chuckled Mudfur. "The carp fills the dish, and anyway you don't have to obey a recipe to the word!"

Oh.

Soon it was time for the third step, and Crookedjaw read it aloud.

_3: Bake at 400 degrees for 40 minutes or until crust is golden brown._

Crookedjaw wondered how they could tell when the crust was golden brown; their oven wasn't nearly transparent. He didn't say anything about that though, because it would probably sound fish-brained. Oakheart put the dish in the oven – without gloves, yet his paws didn't get burned.

"How'd you do that?" asked Crookedjaw.

Oakheart looked up. "Do what?"

"Put the pie in the stove without getting burned!"

Oakheart looked at the stove and then face palmed (_face pawed_, that is). "It's not preheated!"

"Thanks for catching that, Crookedjaw," meowed Mudfur. "Otherwise the pie would be raw at lunchtime."

Mudfur turned the knob on the stove to "400", and they waited. Each of them glanced at the kitchen clock every half-minute.

"I made up a song," Petaldust said suddenly.

The other three looked at her in surprise. They hadn't known Petaldust made up songs.

"Here it is," Petaldust mewed, almost laughing. The words were:

_Old Hailstar, he had a den_

_sixteen fox-lengths high,_

_and every fox-length in that den_

_was filled with fresh-kill pie!_

It was short, easy to remember, and funny. The kits would like it, but Crookedjaw wasn't sure Hailstar would.

"Whoa!" yelled Oakheart. "It's been 55 minutes!"

Crookedjaw took the dish out of the oven, remembering gloves. The fresh-kill pie was a little burned, but still much better than the plain pile.

At lunch time, when the whole Clan was eating fresh-kill pie, Crookedjaw, Petaldust, Mudfur, and Oakheart made sure to sing the song.

The End


End file.
